Chapter 19: Briar

brIAR

The parking lot is pretty deserted when we reach it. There's a shiny, black, clearly new Range Rover and a few older sedans. We head straight toward the Rover, and my eyebrows jump up in surprise. Patrick has a few of the same car in his garage. From what I understand, it's stupidly expensive. I wonder how they afford it on professors' salaries. Maybe they pooled their income together.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by Xander asking, "You driving, Kai?"

"No. I'll sit in the back with Briar." Malachi throws Xander the keys as he opens the passenger side back door. He gestures for me to get in. Once I'm settled, he jogs around the back of the car to get in the other side.

"Why don't I ever get to drive?" Bastian whines when Malachi gets in the car.

"Because you drive like we're being chased by hellhounds, even when we're just going to the store." I chuckle at the mental image Malachi created. At my laughter, Bastian's pout transforms into a grin. He turns to face forward as Xander puts the car in drive.

"Where do you live?" I ask, staring out the window at the forest that surrounds WHU.

When I don't get an answer, I glance around at the Grimm brothers. They're exchanging shifty looks. Bastian turns to me. "About that," he starts, pausing like he isn't sure how to finish.

Maybe my mental calculation was wrong on the likelihood of getting murdered by them. They're being really secretive about where they live, which doesn't bode well for me.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Malachi says when Bastian takes too long. "Our last name isn't Grimm. It's Wyldhart. We live in the Wyldhart Mansion."

My stomach drops at Malachi's revelation. I can feel a panic attack coming on with the way my heart rate speeds up, my breathing comes in shallow pants, and blackness crowds the edges of my vision.

It's so much worse than them being serial killers. They're the fucking Wyldhart heirs. Sons of Patrick's sadistic business partner. The stories Patrick's told me about Valentine Wyldhart's exploits make Patrick look like a benevolent saint.

Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamn bike.

I fucked up. Big-time.

"Briar," Malachi's sharp voice calls, breaking me from my racing, panicked thoughts. "You've clearly heard bad things about our family. Everyone in this small town has. I can promise you whatever you're freaking out about isn't true."

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I force it down. Of course he's going to deny everything bad about his father. That's what you do for family.

His statement makes me think over all the awful things I've heard about Valentine Wyldhart. Patrick hasn't told me a single stomach-turning story about the Wyldhart sons. It's not fair to judge them based on what their father does. Case in point, I'm nothing like my stepfather. Everything I've seen from them in the past two months indicates they're not monsters.

Feeling the vice grip on my chest ease, I know I need to decide for myself if they're trustworthy, not go based on reputation. My gut says I can trust them, though.

Before I decide, I need to see what their opinion of Patrick is. "Do you know Patrick Wynfield well?" I ask when I'm sure my voice will come out steady, not coated in panic.

"He's a sadistic fuck. Stay away from him, Briar," Xander tells me in a serious voice, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror.

I want to laugh at that. I would stay away from him if I could.

"Yeah, he's bad news, pretty girl," Bastian informs me. "He does some business with Dad, but Dad tries to interact with Patrick as little as possible. How do you know him?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Malachi staring at me with a pensive look on his face. I hope I didn't reveal too much by asking about Patrick, but I needed to know if they were chummy with him.

Before I get the chance to respond, Bastian continues, "I forgot, you probably know his daughter. She's a few years older and a freshman at WHU. He also has a younger daughter. Her name is…."

With my eye on Malachi, I see the exact moment he puts it together. I want to scream at myself. There had to be a better way to gauge if they were trustworthy, but I panicked. I asked without thinking things through. Now he knows.

"Ava," I say softly, seeing no point in pretending to be oblivious anymore.

"What?" Bastian asks, not having put the puzzle pieces together like his brother.

"Patrick's daughter is named Ava."

"How do you know that?" Bastian tilts his head in confusion.

"Because she's Patrick Wynfield's stepdaughter, aren't you, Briar?" Malachi asks me in a deceptively quiet tone. I can hear the anger simmering in his question.

"Yes," I breathe.

"And he's the one who did this to you, isn't he?"

"Would you believe me if I said no?" I ask with little hope in my voice. I don't think there's anything I could say to Malachi now to make him think otherwise.

"No, I wouldn't. Why are you protecting him?" Malachi's voice gets louder in agitation, but he's careful not to yell at me, which I appreciate. I'm doing enough screaming at myself in my mind. I don't need his condemnation added to it.

"She's not protecting him, asswipe," Bastian corrects Malachi, voice lashing out like a whip. "She's protecting herself or someone she cares about."

Ding, ding, ding. Five hundred points to the blond god in the passenger seat.

"Who are you protecting?" Malachi asks gently, his earlier anger having evaporated.

"Myself and Ava." The killing me part isn't the most persuasive. It's the hurting Ava part that Patrick knows keeps me in line.

"What happens if someone finds out?" Malachi questions.

"Patrick will kill me, and he'll give Ava to your dad."

"What did he tell you our dad will do to her?" Malachi prods.

"Sell her to the highest bidder, but not before sampling the goods himself," I say quietly, feeling sick discussing what could happen to my sister. Patrick's a monster willing to do that to his own child. Since he won't protect her, I will. I will do anything to keep that from happening, including killing Valentine Wyldhart with my bare hands.

"Holy fucking shit! Our dad would never, ever do that, Briar!" Bastian practically shouts, face contorted in horror.

"Our dad is many things, Briar. He's an asshole sometimes. He can be violent to those who deserve it. He's controlling, but he isn't and never has been a rapist or a child molester. He's fiercely protective of women and children," Malachi tells me calmly before turning to look at me fully. His gaze bores into me. "Do you trust me?"

Staring into his deep blue eyes, I come to the startling realization that I do.

He lied to me about his name, but I understand why they don't go by Wyldhart at school. The Wyldharts are celebrities around here. They're notoriously private, so there aren't recent pictures of the Wyldhart sons floating around. Going by a different name at school, they can be normal for a change. If anyone gets the allure of a normal life, it's me.

"Yeah," I respond after a pause.

"Do you trust Patrick?"

I snort. "Hell no."

"Either Patrick is lying, or we are. Think about who you trust to give you accurate information, Briar." Malachi's words make me consider for the first time that Patrick might have lied.

"But why would Patrick lie about your dad?" That's the part of this I don't get. Why scare me away from Valentine Wyldhart?

"I don't know, Briar. I can talk to our dad and see," Malachi offers.

"No!" I immediately respond, my voice rising in panic. I don't want Valentine Wyldhart hearing anything about my sister, even if he isn't as bad as Patrick says he is.

"Okay. I won't talk to him." For once, Malachi doesn't push me to do as he suggested.

"You okay, sweet girl?" Bastian asks quietly after I've been silent for a few minutes.

At his question, the hysterical laugh finally makes its way out of my mouth. "No."

"Yeah, dumb question. Sorry." Bastian's tone is apologetic as he rubs a hand on the back of his head sheepishly.

I force a small smile to reassure him. It quickly drops when we pull through the tall, wrought iron gates of the Wyldhart Mansion. Their house is an enormous red brick structure with creeping ivy, white columns, and tall chimneys dotting the slate roof. It's almost identical to the Wynters' house, which makes sense since Ronan and Rory are the Wyldharts' cousins.

Jesus wept. I really am clueless.

I should have figured out they were the Wyldharts sooner than I did. I really only have my oblivious self to blame being blindsided by their revelation. Shaking my head at myself, I ask, "Is your father home?"

"No," Malachi assures me. "He's gone until Monday."

Thank the universe for that. Even though I'm starting to think Valentine Wyldhart might not be the boogie man Patrick made him out to be, I'd rather not deal with him after the craptastic day I've had.

We pull into the Grimm, or Wyldhart, brothers' underground garage, and Xander turns off the car. He and Bastian get out.I close my eyes and linger in the vehicle a moment longer, needing time to get myself back together.

I don't know when it got so hard to keep my mask on all the time and pretend everything's fine.It used to be simple to hide what Patrick does. No one ever saw me. Not teachers. Not classmates. Not coaches.

All they ever saw was my cold but polite mask.

Not someone about to splinter into a million pieces. Not someone who wakes up every day and desperately tries to stitch, duct tape, and super glue her life together.Not someone more scared of anyone finding out about the bruises under her clothes than getting more of them.

Now, I have not just one but multiple people who notice when something's off with me. People who care when I miss class and question the shadows in my eyes.

My heart's at war with itself. Half of me wants to lean into this feeling of having people who care and have my back. The other half knows my story isn't the kind that gets a happy ending. Pretending otherwise will only make it hurt that much more when it's ripped away.

"You want to go inside, baby girl?" At Malachi's soft question, I push my melancholy thoughts out of my mind. Dwelling on them isn't going to fix anything. Whatever's going on between me and the Wyldharts isn't going to last forever. They'll get bored of me eventually. All I can do is enjoy it while it lasts. I can make memories now to get me through the hard parts later.

Mind made up, I nod at him and slowly get out of the car, stiff muscles protesting the movement.

Malachi waits until I'm on his side of the car before starting toward his brothers. He puts his hand on my back while we walk. I soak up the warmth that seems to pour off him, while trying not to lean into his touch too much.

We reach Xander and Bastian and go inside as a group. In the mudroom, an older man with a head of white hair and a matching, neatly trimmed beard is waiting for us. He's dressed in a black suit that's perfectly pressed, without a crease out of place.

His sharp brown eyes roam over us before he speaks. "Sirs." He nods at the brothers before turning to me. "Madam. I'm Archibald, head of the Wyldharts' staff. Should you need anything, it would be my pleasure to sort it for you. May I get you any refreshments before dinner?"

When the Wyldhart brothers don't respond, I realize Archibald is waiting on me to answer. I mutely shake my head, overwhelmed by the stately butler. Despite my mom's and Patrick's wealth, we never had a butler or any other household staff. I'm confronted again with the sheer absurdity of the Wyldharts' money and unsure how to act.

With a kind smile and a twinkle in his eyes, Archibald says, "Dinner will be served at seven. Please let me know if you require anything. It is truly a pleasure to meet you, madam."

"You too," I say quietly, so far out of my depth it'd be funny if I weren't worried about drowning.

"Thanks, Archie. We're going to show Briar around and wash up before dinner," Malachi tells him. Archibald dips his chin in acknowledgment before turning sharply on his heel and striding away, coat tails fluttering slightly.

Bastian notices my wide eyes and smiles at me. "You get used to it." He echoes his cousin's words from this weekend.

Yeah, I really don't think so. Growing up in a modest house like a normal person before we moved into Patrick's monstrosity makes it pretty hard to get used to this extravagance.

When I turn to Malachi, he's already assessing me, his head tilted in thought. "Does Patrick not have staff?"

"Other than a cleaning woman who comes during the day, nope." I let out a small, slightly bitter laugh. Household staff like Archibald or a chef would see too much for Patrick's liking. The house is a ghost town most of the time.

"Why not?"

I sigh, realizing I should have anticipated his prodding. "Because he doesn't want anyone seeing our, uh, altercations."

"You mean when he beats you," Malachi growls, bristling on my behalf.

"Yeah," I confirm, shrugging like it's no big deal. While I'm used to the beatings, I'm not used to talking about it. After everything today, I'm at my limit of discussing it.

Acknowledging all the things I shove into mental prisons makes them rattle their boxes harder. It's already hard to keep everything locked away on a normal day. Today, I feel like I'm fighting a losing battle to keep my feelings chained up.

Malachi making me think more about Patrick is the exact opposite of what I need in order to get everything under control.

I look away from him, wanting this conversation to be over. Luckily, Bastian walks further into their mansion, and I follow him. I'm not running away from Malachi's questions, per se. I'm simply walking quickly in the opposite direction. Absquatulating, if you will.

Bastian points out the various rooms we pass in the basement, like the game room, movie theater, and home gym. There are so many rooms on our way to the stairs to the main floor that I lose track of all of them.

On the main floor, the insanity continues. Bastian shows me multiple grand living spaces, two ballrooms, several formal dining rooms, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and more. I don't remember much of what he shows me other than the ballroom that has an absolutely gorgeous B?sendorfer grand piano off to one side. Oh boy, I would love to play that baby. I've only played the worn piano at my high school, never one that beautiful.

Bastian moves past the room before I even have a chance to ask if I can play it. I'll have to sneak down at some point, just to test it out.

I'm sure no one will notice.

With one last longing glance at the grand piano, I turn to follow Bastian. Xander's staring at me with a brow cocked questioningly. Pretending not to see him wondering why I all but drooled over their ballroom, I hustle to keep up with Bastian.

After nearly half an hour of wandering their massive abode, we make it to the end of an upstairs hallway. Bastian points at two doors facing each other. "That's my room and that's Xander's room. The door facing us is Malachi's room."

I nod, unsure what to do next. With an amused half smile, Malachi nudges me toward his room. "You can put your stuff down in here," he tells me as he opens the door.

I take in his room. It's decorated in shades of blue, with gray and black accents. The space is dominated by a massive bed that has to be custom. It's the size of at least one and a half kings. There's an equally huge dark wood bench stretching across the foot of it. Malachi's room also has a pair of matching walnut nightstands. Across the room, there's a comfy-looking graphite couch facing a fireplace with a TV mounted on top.

He has black-and-white photographs scattered across the walls. They're all nature shots, other than a few showing him with his brothers.

The masculine, simple, but inviting space fits Malachi.

"Who took the photos?" I ask Malachi as I set my bag down by the door. "They're stunning."

"I did," Malachi tells me simply as he walks over to the sofa and lowers himself. My eyes widen in surprise before I quickly school my expression. Malachi is super talented. All the photographs have excellent composition and lighting.

Once Malachi's sitting, he motions me over. I hesitantly approach him, unsure what to do with myself in my professor's bedroom. I can't say I've ever been in this situation. He gestures to the seat next to him. "You can sit if you want."

Thankful for some direction of what to do, I tuck my skirt under me and sit in the middle of the cushion. I make sure to leave a good chunk of space between us. The sofa is so comfortable, I decide to close my eyes for a second, needing just a moment to rest.